


Weigh Me In Your Hands

by ninemoons42



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Charles is a cheeky minx, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Consent, First Meetings, First Time, M/M, Makeup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-16 01:02:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42





	Weigh Me In Your Hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [papercutperfect](https://archiveofourown.org/users/papercutperfect/gifts).



title: Weigh Me In Your Hands  
author: [](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**ninemoons42**](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/)  
word count: approx. 2970  
fandom: X-Men: First Class [movieverse]  
characters: Charles Xavier, Erik Lehnsherr, Raven Darkholme, Emma Frost, Angel Salvadore  
rating: NC-17  
notes: Written as a very advanced birthday present for [](http://papercutperfect.livejournal.com/profile)[**papercutperfect**](http://papercutperfect.livejournal.com/), who asked me for an AU that involved Charles and Erik and ancient Egyptian jewelry and makeup. So have a sexy, snarky first meeting/first time fic, involving eyeliner and a certain kind of collar-type jewelry. References to Tutankhamun and to Nefertiti taken from, basically, all over the Internet.

  
"Raven. Raven, please don't do that. Raven, are you even listening to me? _Raven!_ "

"Go sit down, Charles, and do be quiet, I'm trying to do something incredible and great here, something you're going to thank me for in the end."

"You are surfing Wikipedia, the great time sink that is not TV bloody Tropes," Charles huffs, but he towel-dries his hair roughly and messily and collapses into the chair set up in front of Raven's light-up mirror.

He doesn't want to look at the table right in front of the mirror, and settles for watching Raven with her narrowed eyes and the lines in her forehead. He wishes he could run, wishes he could be anywhere else but here.

Well, here or the mansion in Westchester, but since "here" happens to be the middle of Oxford in an October snowstorm and he has neither the use of a Time-Turner nor a time machine masquerading as a police box, he's sort of stuck here.

He could have been anywhere else tonight: he'd been invited to a concert at the Sheldonian, and he was eager to get into one of the new collections at the Radcliffe Camera. But Raven had shown up on his doorstep with a wide smile, a warm hug, and snow dusted into her hair and eyebrows, and everything he'd thought to do had flown neatly out the window, never to be seen again.

The problem had been further complicated by Raven's plans to hold a masquerade party in his rooms - Charles thinks he'd have said yes, if he'd been given time to prepare and tidy up and maybe pick up some of his books. Instead she'd ridden roughshod over all of his objections and, for good measure, called in a few of her friends to help.

Which more or less leaves Charles in the same position that he is in now: he is Raven's long-suffering family and best friend rolled into one, the one she looks up to as a brother when it's convenient and pushes around the rest of the time.

Not that he can begrudge her the noise and the warmth and the light she brings into these rooms. Not that he can complain because she knows exactly how to make him laugh and she knows exactly when to make him a cup of tea and then demand that he do something for her, like read to her from his collections of poetry and prose or, hell, his latest academic work. He won't turn her out; she is the light that brings these rooms to life.

But he'd had plans, and now her plans have taken over his plans, and he thinks her plans might actually involve public humiliation, if he's in the same place as a rather impressive makeup kit.

"Charles, you wouldn't still happen to have one of those big dusty books on Egyptian mummies around, would you?" Raven asks, suddenly, and Charles digs in his feet and tells himself very sternly that he is not to start running for the hills.

He can't help but sound suspicious, though. "If you look at the shelf behind you and count two down from the _Grey's_ , you'll be looking at it. Dare I ask?"

"You can ask; I don't know what you'll do when I answer."

He rolls his eyes and makes sure she can see it. "Raven."

"Chaaarles." She sticks her tongue out, but doesn't look up, because she's too busy paging carefully through the oversized book bound in blue-leather, and when she get to a certain point she crows and pumps her fist happily. "Oh, yes, this will do for me and for Angel. I'm never going to tease you about reading anything and everything," she says as she bustles over, as she lays the book carefully next to the makeup kit. It's open to a series of color plates, and on the current spread are photographs of the Nefertiti bust and Tutankhamun's mask.

"If that's for you and for Angel then why am I here in this chair?"

"You can't be at a masquerade party and not be dressed up or made up."

"That is a ridiculous assertion, and I intend to dispute it - " But Charles trails off when Raven looks at him and reaches into one of the kit's pockets; she rummages in it without taking her eyes from Charles's and smiles a little when she comes up with a small pot with a blue screw-on lid. "Eyeliner. Really, Raven?"

"I had a hell of a time looking for a blue that could actually match your eyes and now that I've got a chance to use it on you, I'm really not going to pass it up," she laughs. The pot lands with a solid little click on the table, and next to it she puts a similar pot with a black lid, and then she pulls out the roll-up bag in which she keeps her brushes and Charles sighs heavily, and resigns himself to his fate.

///

"You could at least wear your cuffs properly," Raven chides as she squeezes into the bathroom with him, later that evening.

Charles raises an eyebrow at her and continues to fold up his left sleeve with exaggerated care. "Since you're only _approximating_ a correct shift dress for the time period you intend to be depicting, kindly refrain from making comments about what I'm wearing."

She grins and shakes her head and tucks her bra strap under the bright green silk of her dress. "I like it when you're being geeky like that."

"Color me not surprised," Charles says, and then he laughs and kisses her temple. Then he takes the black waistcoat from where it's hanging on the doorknob and puts it on. He intentionally leaves the top button undone. He turns to her and raises his chin, and she smiles and tweaks at his collar until it lies perfectly.

Only then does Charles look at himself completely in the mirror: it is an outfit he's worn a thousand times, so he knows that he looks fairly all right in it.

It's the makeup that's different, and that's not just because Charles doesn't normally wear makeup in the first place.

He reaches up to touch his elaborately colored-in right eyebrow, and Raven bats his hand down and shakes her head in pretended disgust. "Don't you go messing that up, Charles, I spent the better part of an hour making sure it looked good."

He shrugs and leans in instead, and takes in the blue and black curves one more time, takes in the smudge of green glitter at the outer corner of his eye, the light dusting of white over the crease of his eyelid. "You do have a talent for this," he says, appreciatively. "I always see you in the same makeup everyone else tends to wear and then I look at this, and this is an extremely accurate Eye of Horus, and I'm in awe of you, frankly."

"You mean you're not in awe of me every day?" she asks, impishly.

Charles does give in to the impulse to roll his eyes at her then, and then they smile at each other and link arms and go out into the rest of Charles's rooms, where the music is loud and the booze is cold and the noise level is enough to knock everyone else over.

He makes a circuit of the place and, to his disbelief, winds up having to collect compliments; he tells them all about Raven's machinations and they all grin at him and tell him that he carries the look off pretty damn well. It confuses him enough that he wants to run for the punch bowl and attempt to empty it, but he passes by the front door at the exact moment that someone knocks on it, and he hopes he's not completely red in the face when he reaches for the handle and turns it.

The man who walks in looks windblown and confused. Like Charles, and unlike everyone else at the party, he's not wearing any fancy dress: a plain white t-shirt over a dark blue long-sleeved henley, battered black denims, and motorcycle boots that seem to go with the helmet tucked under one arm.

What he is wearing over the shirts, however, is something else entirely: a magnificent replica _usekh_ collar that catches the light and throws it back in startling combinations: gold, turquoise, brick-red, and blue shot through with vivid green.

Before Charles can open his mouth and start babbling about the vivid contrast between the man's outfit and his ornament, however, several someones shout "Erik!" and Charles is not exactly elbowed aside by Raven and the other girls but it comes perilously close to that, close enough that he sighs and retreats to the kitchen in disgrace.

He smiles politely past several conversations and Emma attempting to flirt with him - the heavy crimson domino draws all eyes to her sharp smile, and it is really lovely against both her pale skin and flaxen hair - and finally slips back to his own study, where he can close the door and sit among familiar books and shelves and chairs. No sign of Raven's things here, which is sort of a pity, and also - just for tonight - sort of a relief.

He sits down on the floor and leans back against his desk - huge ugly thing, it looks like a boat capsizing under its weight in paper and books and ink some days, and Charles has loved it for years - and is perfectly happy to hear the party at a remove of walls and doors. He thinks about moving to pick up a book or the hideous red-and-purple throw that he keeps in one of the drawers, the warmest blanket he owns, and he closes his eyes and thinks about staying right here and being comfortable, and then someone opens the door.

"Raven, please," Charles murmurs, and the cough that answers him sounds nothing at all like his sister, and his eyes fly open just as the man with the usekh closes the door behind him.

"That's not my name," the man says.

"Yes, I know you must be Erik or something, or that must be the name you're using tonight; my sister and her friends basically trampled me in order to get to you. I can take a hint," Charles grouses, and he closes his eyes again and, recklessly, pulls a face at the rest of the room in general.

"Yes, my name is Erik. And I came in here to apologize for that, er, attack, actually. Kind of hard to miss what they did, because it all happened right in front of me."

"Oh?" By the time Charles cracks his un-made-up eye open, Erik is already seated in front of the low-slung armchair that Charles often falls asleep in when he's lost in reading something. "Is that really necessary? The apology, I mean. I'm not sure it should be important."

"I can't tell whether you're being sarcastic or not," Erik grouses.

"I tend to be sarcastic when my sister is the topic."

"Which means you're sarcastic to her all the time. Yeah. I know how that goes."

They sit there in comfortable silence until Charles sighs and remembers his manners. "As fun as it is to gossip about Raven - you can't imagine how much of a change that would be for me, since it is always the other way around - I should really be shooing you back to the party. Shame if others couldn't see that gorgeous usekh of yours."

"I should say the same for you and your Eye of Horus," Erik says, almost laughing.

Charles looks up, and grins. "Geek."

"Pot, kettle, black."

Charles's grin grows wider.

Erik does chuckle, then, and gets to his feet.

Charles coughs quietly; this close, Erik is _tall_.

"I think I'm going to look for your sister now. I want to tell her off for being rude to you, and I want to thank her for informing me of your existence, even if it wasn't the best way to do so."

Charles eyes the hand that Erik offers him, somewhat dubious and then mostly amused, and he takes Erik's hand and hauls himself to his feet.

He may or may not have planned to step very, very closely into Erik's space as he does so.

Erik blinks, once, owlish and then very, very expectant - and then leans in further, so Charles either has to back away or go cross-eyed.

He goes cross-eyed, and smiles - and, daringly, presses a swift kiss to the tip of Erik's nose.

///

There are catcalls when they rush past everyone else on the way out the door, when Erik tosses his jacket and helmet at Charles - and the catcalls turn into enthusiastic cheering when Raven goes so far as to lean out the door and yell, "And don't come back if you don't get any, Charles!"

Erik's motorbike is huge and sleek and gleaming even under the dim street lights and Charles doesn't hesitate to jump on behind Erik, or to put his arms around Erik's torso and hang on for dear life.

The engine roars in the night, but it is still not as loud as the beat of Charles's own heart, hammering in his ears and just beneath his skin.

One swift short sprint later, they're pulling up in front of a five-story block of flats; Charles lets Erik grab his wrist and lead him all the way up, even as he struggles to get out of the borrowed riding gear, and he's smiling and blushing to within an inch of his life when the door closes behind the two of them.

Erik growls, "So not fair," and Charles doesn't even get to ask what he's complaining about because Erik crowds him right into the door and kisses him, and it's gorgeous and glorious, teeth and tongues and wandering hands: Erik is clutching at his upper arms and Charles hopes he gets bruises from Erik's fingers, even as his own hands find the small of Erik's back and hang on with everything he's got.

When they pull away from each other to take a breath Charles looks at Erik for the first time, really looks at him, and he thought he was breathless before. It doesn't compare to what he's seeing: dark eyes as hot and as bright as stars going supernova, brown hair threaded with red and copper and silver, mouth already swollen from their brief exchange, high flush in his cheeks.

"Don't look at me like that," Erik says in that same hoarse voice. "I won't be responsible for what happens to you next."

"I'll keep looking; I don't want you to _feel_ responsible," Charles says, and he grabs at Erik's shirt and hauls him back in, and he's not sure which one of them groans - all he knows is that his eyes fly open when Erik pulls him away from the wall, and it's a wonder Charles can still walk with wanting him so desperately. That state of consternation lasts only long enough for Erik to haul him into the bedroom - and then it's Charles who breaks away, helping Erik out of his clothes.

They do look at each other with regret when Charles takes the heavy, gleaming collar off Erik's shoulders.

"That'd look fantastic on you," Erik says, after a long, charged moment.

"You want that? All right," Charles says, and he places the usekh on the bed and whips off his waistcoat and his shirt - and after a moment, everything else. He sits down on the foot of the bed and smiles, and puts the collar on.

Erik hisses and doesn't take his eyes off Charles as he goes to stand, and then kneel, between Charles's knees. "Still up to giving in? Because I want you. I want you so much."

"Have me," Charles says, easily, and they stop talking after that: there is just the two of them, skin on skin, reverent whispers and repetitions of each other's name. Charles presses a line of kisses down Erik's chest, and in retaliation Erik licks over the jut of his hip bone. Hands wandering all over. Charles smiles when Erik hands him a tube of lubricant and a small square of foil, and pushes him into the sheets. "My turn to make a wish?"

"Yes," Erik hisses. "Anything you want."

"Can I ride you?"

He gets an enthusiastic nod and a pointed shift of Erik's hips - it makes Charles laugh, quietly, and his hands shake as he preps Erik and himself.

They move together, now long and slow strokes, now rapid hammering movements, and Charles curses and clutches at Erik and Erik grips him just as tightly and slurs out Charles's name between gasps, and falling over the edge is fierce and white-hot when it happens at last.

Erik is still holding on to him when Charles comes to. "I'm sorry, by the way."

He wants to look at Erik, because he's that honestly confused, but he doesn't move from where his left cheek has become attached to Erik's collar bone. "About what?"

Erik's large warm hand strokes his right eyebrow. "Wrecking this."

"I can always wear it again," Charles mutters. He can't help kissing Erik, as sweaty and sticky as he is - as they both are.

"Is that a promise?"

Charles grins. "Yes. I promise. On my hope of coming forth by day."

It takes a moment for Erik to get the reference and laugh, and Charles laughs back, and falls easily into his kiss, once again.  



End file.
